


The Case of the French Ambassador's Mother.

by Haldane



Series: The Pretence Series [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldane/pseuds/Haldane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Next in the 'Pretence' series.   Mycroft needs help with a diplomatic emergency.  Holmes uses Mycroft's gratitude, and a bizarre natural phenomenon, to get even with Watson for the "Cravat" incident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the holmesslash "jellyfish" challenge. In 1895 a rain of jellyfish was reported across London. This was to be worked into the story.

I felt only mild surprise when I recognised the man emerging from the carriage that had just arrived at our door. I certainly had no idea of exactly what the very personal consequences to me were going to be. Not that I minded, truly, aside from the fact that it is always more fun to win a bet than to lose one.

"Holmes! Your brother has come to visit. There must be something very seriously amiss to move him out of his usual routine and into our premises." 

"Mycroft? Well, well. At least his problems are usually interesting."

And so this one turned out to be. Their conversation was full of allusions and obscure wit, so I will simply summarize it here. The mother of the current French Ambassador had been quietly puttering among the embassy rosebushes, when she was found dead from a blow to the back of the head. There was no sign of a struggle, or indeed of any other person at all, and the embassy guards had observed nothing. The Ambassador himself was naturally possessed by grief and rage, and the British Government wished to prove quickly and decisively that this sort of harm to a guest was not to be tolerated.

Thus, enter Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes was gratified to see that the Ambassador, despite his personal grief over the matter, was aware of the need to preserve the scene. The poor woman had been covered a blanket, but otherwise nothing had been touched. We stayed back, watching, as Holmes removed his shoes and carefully combed the garden, spiralling in from underneath the very walls to where she lay. 

He gently removed the blanket and looked closely, then called me over to assist him in rolling her over with as much dignity as possible. Then he sat back on his heels and remained silent for the longest time.

He questioned the guards, and other house staff, but being used to his methods I sensed he was only going through the motions. He did not have the look he did when he had a clear trail to follow. 

I left him to brood in silence during the carriage ride home. Knowing he prefers silence and solitude for intense concentration, I excused myself as soon as we arrived back at our rooms and went out to my club for the rest of the day.

I returned to find that had not moved from his chair, except to keep his pipe filled with tobacco and the room with smoke. I asked if I could be of any use, but he only grunted and waved me away. I was too accustomed to this behaviour to take offence, and went to bed hoping that illumination would occur before dawn. 

\----------------------

In the morning it was clear that no such illumination had occurred. I managed to talk him into a small amount of breakfast, and then he decided to return to the embassy. On the way he opened up a little, sharing some of his frustration.

"Watson, a harmless woman lies dead, violently but with no possible motive. Her jewellery was intact, her character was completely above reproach, she had no debts and as far as I can tell no vices. A political kidnapping I can see, to put pressure on her son, but her death achieves nothing for anyone. Furthermore, there is no trace of any other person in the garden. The lawn around her was undisturbed, so she died where she lay, without struggling. Not a single footprint near her, despite the dampness of the ground. No one saw any intruder, either outside the walls or in the house, and the doorman reports no visitors. Yet the fact is she is dead, from a single terrible blow hard enough to break her skull. How could such a blow be delivered, without leaving deep impressions of feet?"

I had no answers for him. We spent two fruitless hours at the embassy, one in the garden and another one pacing the streets outside the walls. Hot and tired, I insisted on stopping on the way home for a lunch and something cold to drink. Holmes acquiesced without interest.

He sat for so long after the meal, obsessively pushing an icecube back and forth across the table, that I called for the paper. Despite his obvious preoccupation, I found a story so wild and farfetched that I burst out in indignation. "The rubbish they print these days! Would you credit it? Now they expect us to believe that yesterday there were jellyfish dropping out of the heavens across London, like some Biblical plague of frogs! I cannot decide if they are stupid enough to believe it, or think we are stupid enough to believe their invention. Either way it is ridiculous!"

At that point I stopped, aware that Holmes had stopped his fidgeting and was staring straight at me. "Let me see that." He said, in a tone so commanding that I handed the paper over reflexively. He read the entire article thoroughly, twice, then looked back at the table, where only a small puddle of water showed where the icecube had been.

"Watson. How would you like to take a wager, that this reported rain of jellyfish is nothing more than the sober truth?" 

"Are you serious?"

"Completely. I will even offer you the same stakes as last time." That got my attention. He must be certain indeed... but _jellyfish?_ Impossible.

"Hmm. A wager, as to the actual presence of jellyfish, and not by some mundane contrivance such as a marketer's cart overturning, with the forfeit nominated by the winner. Yes."

"Quickly, then. I need to send a telegram, and then see Mycroft."

\--------------

I was not privy to his interview with his brother, but Holmes returned in the most cheerful frame of mind I had seen for the last two days. But it was not until the next day, when he received not one but two telegrams, that anything was made clear to me. He read both telegrams, and then tossed them triumphantly into my lap.

"There you are. The case solved, and our wager decided."

The first read only: "Yes, to both objects. I have trustworthy reports. M." The second was not much longer: "Reported 21st May at 0916, just offshore Sheerness, heading north and west." and was from the Department of the Admiralty.

"Holmes, really. These telegrams prove nothing, without knowledge of the questions you asked. You will need to do better than this."

Holmes passed me the 'VET' to 'ZYM' volume of the encyclopaedia. "If you look under 'waterspouts' you may find some useful information."

I looked, but gained very little. A waterspout was like a tornado formed over water, a violent swirling storm that stretched down from the clouds to the surface of the water. "Most frequent in, but not confined to, the tropics." it concluded.

"I am sorry, Holmes, I must confess that I do not follow."

"I sent a cable yesterday, asking the Admiralty about reports of waterspouts in the vicinity of London. With responsibility for the entire Navy, they have the best records of ocean and coastal weather, especially dangers such as storms. There was indeed a waterspout, in the morning, the day before yesterday. Do you see yet? A storm off the coast, reaching up into the coldest parts of the sky, and down to touch the sea. Thus we get jellyfish, sucked from their rightful place to fall helplessly over the city as the storm disintegrated, and also a chunk of ice, falling with the most unlucky chance on the head of a frail, elderly woman bending over in her garden." 

He continued. "The warmth of the air at this level melted the ice before she was found. Since I was in my socks, I did notice a much wetter patch of ground near her body, but was unable to account for it at the time. Both the jellyfish and reports of other lumps of ice have been confirmed by brother Mycroft's informants, and if he says the reports are trustworthy, then you can be certain they are. You can check with him yourself if you wish, but the answers will be no different. The case is solved, and the wager is mine."

I knew him too well to contest it. If he - and Mycroft - were certain, then that was how things were. And now I had to ask. "Well? What do you name?"

"Ten minutes of your time, when I ask for it, during which you will do _exactly_ as I say."

"Ten minutes? Only?" There had to be more to it. "Are you talking privately or publicly?"

"Oh, Watson, most privately, I assure you. Trust me." 

"I hate it when you say that." Ten minutes? I did not know whether to be relieved or insulted.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a week later that we were invited to dinner at Mycroft's estate outside of London. Mycroft Holmes rarely stirred from the city, but when he did, it was to one of the most private places in England. Holmes assured me that his brother's staff were notably efficient and discreet. Given the sensitive position Mycroft held within the British Government, I could only agree with him.

Dinner was for four, as the French Ambassador was also present, having wished to meet with my friend personally. He was a polite and pleasant dinner companion, although naturally still somewhat subdued after his loss. He thanked Holmes, in excellent English, and presented him with a case of wines personally selected from the embassy cellars. I kept quiet about my instant resolution to be around when they were opened.

The meal was superb, as it should be when one entertains at such a height, and my only disappointment was when we ended with a selection of cheeses, following the French style, instead of a dessert. Not that I dislike cheese, but I must confess to a particular weakness for sweets.

It was with some reluctance that I rose to formally see the Ambassador to his carriage. The night outside was pleasant enough; I was simply too comfortable to welcome having to move. But I did my polite duty, and stood with the others under the portico as our distinguished guest drove away.

I was turning to re-enter the house when Holmes caught my sleeve. He bid his brother goodnight, and the front door closed behind him, leaving the two of us standing outside.

"I certainly hope we, too, are not going back to London now!"

"Not at all. In addition to the main house, brother Mycroft keeps two small guesthouses here. They are unstaffed, and _extremely_ private, if you follow my meaning. Unless you would rather we return to the main house and be assigned a pair of bedrooms with a mile of hallway in between?"

"If you would lead on then, Holmes. Remember, I do not know this estate."

"It's not far."

\---------------

The guesthouse itself was perfect, warm and comfortable rather than elegant.   
There were basically four rooms, two in front for use as dining-room and sitting-room, and two bedrooms set behind. All of the domestic functions were provided from the main house. The only oddity was that the table in the dining room was covered with a heavy woollen blanket, and all of the chairs stood back against the walls. 

Holmes must have been watching my expression, since his hands slid over my shoulders and he spoke softly into my ear. "Yes, I rather thought you would notice that. If you recall, we made a wager, and cost to you was ten minutes of your time." He leaned forwards a little, pressing his entire body along the length of mine. "That time starts now."

I confess, it took a moment for my brain to catch up, but alone and relaxed with Holmes clearly intent on my person, I think I would have done anything he asked even without the wager. "What am I to do?"

"Remove all of your clothes, then lie down on the table, on your back. And no dawdling to use up time, I want fair payment from you."

I had no objections, although why he wanted to have sex on a table with a perfectly good bedroom next door was beyond me. With the blanket beneath, I was comfortable enough. Then he brought over a long strip of heavy black cloth, and blindfolded me. He placed it so that my nose was uncovered, but he blocked the hollows beneath my eyes so I could see nothing, even when I tried to peer out from under the edge. "Is that comfortable?"

"Yes. How many more minutes do you have?" He circled the table once, quickly, pausing at each corner to do something that I could not determine.

"Four. It will be enough, since my final order is that you remain completely still for that time."

His hand grasped my wrist, and wrapped a strip of flannel around it. I could not understand why, until he knotted a rope over the cloth, restraining me without fear of scraping the skin. The other end of the rope had already been fastened to the leg of the table, so it was quick work.

_"Holmes!"_

"Quiet!" and he swiftly did the same to my other wrist, then both ankles. I was forced to admit, he finished within the four minutes he had defined.

"Well, Watson, your ten minutes is paid and now you may do as you choose." 

"Holmes, this is _cheating!_ " 

"No, I have simply planned ahead. Now, since it seems you are just going to lie there..." He moved around the room, but I could determine nothing from what I heard. He came back to my side, and his hand brushed low across my stomach, below the navel. 

"Hold still." Not the most encouraging words. And I moved anyway, in reflex, as something very hot and damp fell across me. It seemed to be a piece of towelling, soaked in hot water and wrung out, such as a barber might use. 

"No. Oh no, Holmes, tell me that isn't what I think it is. What are you doing?" I could have wished for my voice to be steadier.

"I saw you at dinner, and noted your regret at the lack of dessert. Therefore, I have arranged dessert, _à deux,_ here. Unfortunately, I failed to arrange plates, and I cannot stand stray hairs in my food. _Now_ will you hold still?"

The edge of a razor was placed lightly against my skin, and I clenched my eyes shut despite the blindfold. His touch was beautifully delicate, as he worked gradually downwards, clearing the area between my navel and the heavier hairs clustered around my member. I did not suffer a single nick.

"There, see? Not so bad, was it?" He had the gall to pat my cheek, as if I was a child sitting still for a haircut. "Now, I am hardly a cook, so dessert is rather simple. You will be glad to hear that I excluded all choices with the word "flambé" in them." 

"That's good, yes."

"So, I got Mycroft's chef to set up a small fruit salad..." 

The skin on my stomach, sensitive enough already without its recent scraping, quivered as Holmes began placing cool, damp objects seemingly at random. The fruit was wet with its own juices, and as he continued I could feel small trickles starting down my sides and pooling in my navel. 

"And as one cannot serve a fruit salad without fresh cream..."

He used his fingers to apply the cream also, his touches leaving silky trails and blobs that moved with an exquisitely feather-light sensation as my breathing caused my skin to rise and fall. Each successive moment combined to build exactly the effect he wanted. 

"Grand Marnier?"

"Perhaps just a little, thank you." The strangled croak in my voice rather ruined the attempted irony. 

I felt his lips against mine, and when I responded he carefully let a trickle of the liqueur run into my mouth. "Saves on glasses" he whispered, then his lips trailed down my throat and chest, stopping to lave my nipples, those parts that men seem to have for no reason, unless it be this one. "Careful!" he warned as I moved against him, and I stilled myself. It was agony to remain completely passive as he worked, and all the time the wetness tickled and dripped, warm now from the heat of my own body.

He reached my navel, and I felt his tongue dip into it, lapping up the pooled juices and cream. I was trembling all over, and he hushed me gently, hands taking long soothing strokes down my sides, until I relaxed a little and could breathe more normally again. 

Then I felt something at my mouth, and realised it was a piece of fruit, held in his teeth. I opened my lips and accepted it, and tasted the sweetness of a slice of orange as Holmes chose a couple of pieces for himself, using lips alone on his creation. Something rolled off my side, and a moment later he passed me a single grape. His lips tasted of cream and the orange spirit, but when I tried to stretch out to him he pulled away, refusing to be drawn. 

My member was rigid and aching by now, all the worse because as he moved he kept almost touching it, but without ever actually doing so. Finally he did touch me there, a small lick at the very tip. "Now, Watson, you don't want to drip in your dessert, do you?"

That was one of the most obscene things I had ever heard. "If I agree with you, will you do that again?" I asked hopefully. 

"I am not to be manipulated that easily. You do know that the word 'manipulate' comes from the Latin 'manus', meaning 'hand'..." and his hand closed around me, stroking extremely slowly. Now his lips alternated between the decreasing pile of fruit, my mouth, and my erection, and the pleasure was so intense I could hardly bear it.

I do not know how long a time it was, but he continued until only one piece remained. This last his teeth picked up, and I waited in anticipation for his mouth to come to mine, but instead he climbed entirely onto the table. He knelt with one bare leg on either side of my torso, holding his weight away from me. I neither knew nor cared when he had removed his clothes. 

He brushed my lips, and I tasted fruit - which, I do not remember exactly. As I consumed it, he sank back and impaled himself on me.

He must have prepared himself with something, for he slid over me as easily as a glove, if gloves were deliciously tight and hot and made you groan aloud when you put them on. He rocked on me, gently, while his fingers were everywhere, touching my jaw and throat, brushing my nipples, stroking the underside of my arms, making me tremble with my vulnerability. Then he ran his fingers through the sticky mess still on my stomach, and leant forwards to touch my lips.

I opened my mouth eagerly, drawing his fingers in one at a time and sucking them clean, using my lips and tongue as he sighed with pleasure at my ministrations. I could feel, smell, hear and taste him, and the thought of being denied that fifth sense was driving me mad.

"Holmes, take the blindfold off?" I pleaded, and heard him laugh in answer. "Holmes, take this _bloody blindfold off or you are a dead man!!"_ I shouted, which only amused him more.

"Really, Watson, is that a polite way to ask? Your manners certainly are slipping."

"Please, Holmes, please. Take it off, and let me see you." I begged again, and he relented. Two hands brushed my temples, and the black cloth fell away.

He was beautiful to me in the lamplight, all planes of muscle and sinew, lean lines, arched back a little in deliberate display. He touched himself now, drawing his hands languidly over his skin, from his hips up to his shoulders and down again, but when he touched his own swollen member I spoke. "No, Holmes."

"No?" Lifting one eyebrow.

"No. Leave that alone. I want it."

"Demanding, aren't we?" he teased, reaching back with one hand, and used a single finger to just brush the outside of my opening. "Here?"

"Yes, oh _god_ yes" I moaned, my hips pushing up quite without my control. Holmes moved faster, his hand still playing in that most sensitive area, and when he squeezed his interior muscles I screamed and thrust into him as far as my bonds would allow. He moved in perfect rhythm with me, squeezing and meeting my thrusts, until I came so hard I felt I would tear apart, and I nearly fainted.

I lay on the tabletop, limp and sweating, and took several minutes to catch my breath. Holmes slid off of me, and returned with another hot towel, which he used to gently clean my body, starting with my face and working downwards. When he removed the ropes I made no attempt to get up, until he slapped me sharply on the flank and pointed. "The bed is that way."

\--------------

I remember little of the decor of the bedroom. I remember perfectly the sound of Holmes's voice in my ear, so loaded with promise that even now the memory of it can make me harden. "How do you want it?" 

There are many possibilities, but I knew much of his pleasure tonight was because of his current triumph over me. So I chose the most submissive position of them all, kneeling down on all fours on the rug in front of the fire.

"Oh, Watson." I could hear the lust in his tone, while his hand snaked under the pillow for the tin secreted there. "I suspect you know me better than I realise." And he fell to his knees behind me.

He started slowly, but as far as I was concerned I had paid my forfeit, and I had never promised that he would have things his way for the entire evening. I braced myself on my good arm, and reached back between my legs to find his sac, caressing it and squeezing it gently in my palm. He sped up immediately.

"Watson, stop that!"

"Ha! Try and make me!" Childish, perhaps, but then all of it was a game played by rules only the two of us would ever be aware of. I curled my fingers and dragged my nails lightly over his skin, wrenching a deep moan from his throat.

It was a fight between his self-control and his body, but his body had my enthusiastic assistance. His hips slammed into my buttocks, over and over, until with one last great thrust he cried out and I felt his heat spread inside my own warmth. I fell flat upon the carpet, with him stretched over me like a blanket cut in my own shape. 

Holmes spoke first. "Watson, you are a treasure."

"And you are getting soppy in your old age." I grumbled, but turned my head to catch his eye and let him see my smile.

It is a good thing that the bed was only a few feet away, for we were both unsteady on our legs as we stood. It was comfortable; at least I think it was, for the short time that I was in it before sleep swept over me.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes called upon his brother in the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club. The usual polite formalities were exchanged, and they sat in a discreetly isolated pair of chairs.

"I trust you are content with the results of both your bargains?" Sherlock asked.

"Indeed. More than content, in fact. The Government is extremely pleased, and I, well, I was extremely pleased."

Sherlock shook his head, in a combination of exasperation and admiration. "Trust you to settle on the aspect of sexuality that requires the least effort and become a voyeur. By the way, there was a slight draft along the floor when you entered, you might want to see to that. Watson noticed nothing."

"He didn't know?" The older brother watched the younger, who was not entirely at ease.

"Didn't, and doesn't. That is the only thing that bothers me about the whole affair. I did not have his permission to involve another in what has been solely our concern before now."

"I do not see that he should ever find out. Least said, soonest mended. And if it ever emerges, well, from what I overhead, he had promised complete co-operation for ten minutes, so you could include my arrival in that promise. A weak excuse perhaps, but even a weak excuse can permit a man to save face. I did not," and the deep voice paused significantly, "follow you into the bedroom."

"I would have objected if you had."

They sat in silence for some time, and then Mycroft heaved himself to his feet. "I have left instructions with my estate steward that you are to have the use of the guesthouse at any time you ask. Provided, of course, that the estate is vacant, but then it usually is, and he would appreciate a few days' notice."

"That is most generous of you. Thank you."

"You need not concern yourself with observation. Unless with your flair for the dramatic and your tendency to perform your best work in front of an admiring audience, you request it. After all, even voyeurs can provide a service as long as the world contains exhibitionists."


End file.
